stopped asking questions. I knew Shannonâher suspicions, how she called Sarah âthe witch doctor.â Sheâd tried to get the doctor from the supply ship to do a Caesarean rather than rely on Sarahâs help. âToo dangerous,â heâd said. âInadequate facilities.â The hospital in town operated with no power, all those bulky machines heaped up in a kind of scrapyard that overtook the parking lot.
Marvin came out of his shed. Through the window we watched as he clicked the padlock closed. I put the pot in the sink and we went outside, wandering over to the garden where the last of the lettuce had gone to seed. I picked at bits of tomato skin stuck to my fingers. Thomsonâs blood-stained handkerchiefs flapped on the line like prayer flags.
âIâm going into town,â Mr. Bobiwash said as Marvin approached.
âNo wagon?â
He shook his head. âWalking. Weâll see more.â
Town was five miles away. A community of about two hundred. A church we never went to, sticking instead to the market, the occasional dance. For years weâd hidden on its edges, but as things unravelled we grew braver, not so afraid of being caught.
âIâm going to meet the boat. Find the doctor.â
âItâs here?â I asked, eager.
âEvery day,â said Mr. Bobiwash. âI go every day.â
âItâs been late before,â said Marvin. Mr. Bobiwash picked up the gun, balanced the stock on his shoulder. Marvin was right, but those times we had known where it was, could follow its progress. The only shortwave radio on the island had melted in a fire during a cold snap last January.
Samuel walked up one side of the garden, dragging his foot in the dirt, making a line. The chickens crowded behind him, pecking at the exposed bugs.
Mr. Bobiwash turned to me. âEric picked a load of bulrushes yesterday,â he said, referring to his middle son. âThereâs lots.â
I knew this was Mr. Bobiwashâs way of asking me to stop by his house, to check on Shannon. He closed his free hand around the fencepost and turned to Marvin. âIâm stopping at the Sharmasâ place.â His hand pulled on the wooden stock of the gun so the barrel gazed up at the sky. âSomethingâs been eating out of their garden.â
A crow called, landing on the peaked tin roof of Marvinâs shed. âItâs just deer,â I said, but Mr. Bobiwash ignored me.
âCarrots pulled out. Eggs gone. The Sharmas shot a mess of ducks and offered me one.â
Marvin was already nodding as he spoke. âTo look for whatever it is.â
âItâs a deer,â I repeated, as if Mr. Bobiwash would believe me. I pushed Marvinâs arm, trying to get him to agree with me, to tell Mr. Bobiwash the same thing.
âTheyâve set traps.â
âTraps?â said Marvin.
âBox traps.â
None of us spoke. The wind moved around us. A blue jay scolded from its perch on a jack pine.
âThe Sharmas are old people,â said Mr. Bobiwash. âThey donât have a lot. Their son probably needs most of their food. He works hard.â
âYou canât kill it,â I blurted.
Mr. Bobiwash settled his brown eyes on mine but didnât say anything.
âAll right,â Marvin said. âIâll go.â
âIâll come with you,â I told them.
Marvin turned to me. âYou have to stay with Thomson.â
âHeâs sleeping.â
âSandy . . .â
I walked away, opened the plastic ice cream pail of corn and crushed clam shells and saw that it was almost empty. The crow cawed into the heavy air. It was humid, rain hanging in the sky. Another bird answered. Waking you from your daytime sleep in the dark rock hollows, telling you to watch out.
In our bedroom, I sat on the mattress while Marvin changed from shorts to a pair of corduroy pants. Stop him from hunting
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